^4 b'b 5* 

PS 635 
.Z9 
D532 
Copy 1 



W 



v 



;AURENCE, 



OR NOT 



Ail iiiiprokiWc IilokIcjvL of the Civil W 



in America. 



Frederick Laurence, 



OR NOT: 



An Improbable Incident of the Civil War 
in America. 
















<&\& 



v^ 



IPP92-0090S5 



Editorial Introduction. 



I have observed no real facts; I have adhered -to no 
actual rule, further than that of telling a simple tale 
as my thoughts have led me to express the sentiments 
of a wandering mind. 

The plot is one that, while I must acknowledge it is 
uncommon, is yet so uncomplicated that it may be prac- 
ticed by the most inexperienced trickster to the great 
misfortune of a good man. When I was writing the 
curse of the hero upon the head of his enemy, some of 
the well known lines of Dante's Works occurred to me, 
and, with a slight change (not enough to spoil the real 
merit of the same, but to suit my purpose better), I have 
taken the liberty to use them. Trusting that from the 
first this Drama will take its place amongst that class 
of comedy that tinds a welcome reception in the hearts 
of the loving dramatic public upon its own merits, 

1 am, most respectfully, 

THE AUTHOR. 



Persons of the Drama. 



Frederick Mensor (Frederick Laurence), a Southerner, 
and a banished son. 

William Hubert, a Sergeant of United States Volun- 
teers, and chief conspirator. 

Cardinal Boon, a native of Australia, a Corporal of 
same Volunteers as Hubert, and in Ids confidence. 

Isa.m Hoffendime, a German- American, and a saloon- 
keeper. 

Jack Lee, a Southerner, and keeper of a tavern. 

MAJOR FresHMONGER, a friend of F. Mensor, and a 
lawyer. 

Charley Mensor, a son of F. and A. Mensor. 

ARABELLA MENSOR, wife of F. Mensor, and a South- 
erner. 

BARBARA SHINWELL, a widow lady, and a friend of A. 

Men soi'. 

MOLLIE GIBBONS, a maid in the employ of A. Mensor. 



Frederick Laurekce, 

OR NOT: 

AN IMPROBABLE INCIDENT OF THE CIVIL WAR 
IN AMERICA. 



ACT I. 

[First day. — Afternoon.] 

Scene I. — A saloon in a village in New York State. 
Isam Hoffendime, the proprietor, standing behind the 
bar, engaged in wiping a glass. 

I. H. Veil, ef de government authorities vill permid 
de troops from dis section to centralize here in town 
und-til our new combena is ready to take oop its line of 
march for de seat of war, mine gr-r-a-cious ef I doant 
make me fame and fortune long before de last sound of 
de trumpet shall haf died avay upon de distant horizon, 
und de forms of de gallant blue-coats shall haf faded und- 
to oblivion, eh, vat ? you bet Isam Hoffendime, you make 
lots uf pisness. 

Enter Cardinal Boon, r. 

/. H. [Aside.] I guess dis is now one uf Uncle Sam's 

tramps. I dinks I will speak to him. [Aloud.] Halloa ! 

C. B. Halloa, yerself. 

/. H. Veil, I dinks I'm hallow und-nough already. 



G FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

C. B. Hallow : ha, ha, ha ! — Who iver heard ov a bar- 
tender wid a bow-window loike yours who carried it 
empty ; so me merry friend, 

Fill the bowl wid yer richest treasure, 
An let us drink while we hev leisure. 

[Hoffendime places upon the bar bottle and two glasses. 
Boon helps himself ; Hoffendime does likewise.] 

C. B. This is the charm that gives to man, whin all 
else in this world fails — consolation — 

I. H. Mine God ! stranger, ef you vasn't an authentic 
philosopher. 

C. B. A what ? 

/. H. [Laughing.] Veil, ef you doan't take de bre- 
mium. 

C. B. Burst my slugs ; uf there is anything in this 
corporation world that compels me to display the nobler 
part ov me manhood, it is whin a Dutch galloot calls me 
by sum nickname. 

/. H. I vas simply comblementing you on de bright- 
ness uf your wit. 

C. B. [Taking oft* his coat.] I haint got no toime to 
hear any emotional apology, fer oi've only a couple ov 
hours to spare an ye will need at least ten minutes ov it, 
in which to dispose ov yer worldly treasures, and it will 
take all ov the balance fer me to pound ye to jelly in. 

/. H. Veil, stranger, I must confess dot I aint had dis 
floor decently wipe-oop since de last dragoon was in 
here ; und by mine life I swear dot I swung dot fellow 
around dis room und-til he ceased to murmur. 

C. B. Wuz that coon a bigger man thin me ? 

/. H. Veil, I should snicker ef he wasn't [stretching 
his arms out their full breadth] just so much bigger. 

G. B. Whew I An ye wiped up the floor wid hym? 

/. H. Ya ; und it vas like child's play. 

C. B. Ye don't say so ? 

/. H. Exactly so [coming from behind bar] ; und ef 
you vill come vid me, I'll show you de stains of blood 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 7 

dot come from dot dragoon's head when I throwed him 
out de window. 

C. B. [Starting towards the door.] I — I prefer to gaze 
upon it at some future toime, fer jist now oi'm in a bit of 
a hurry to go. 

/. H. Veil, just wait und-til I call mine wife to tend 
bar, und I'll go outside wid ye. 

C. B. [Frightened.] Oh, don't trouble yerself, fer 
oi'm quite able to foind me way out alone. 

1. H. I want to show you dot dragoon's hide. For 
I've got it hanging oop on de fence outside. 

G. B. Many thanks ; but I guess I won't wait ; oi'll 
see ye in the next gineration. 

I. H. Hold on. Doan't you dink dot you could 
shtand a drink before you go ? 

C. B. [Perplexed.] • Well— yes. I feel as though I 
cou'd chew sum thin' — I mean — - 

/. H. Eh ! vat is dot you say ? 

C. B. I say, that I mean I would rather drink wid ye 
thin the President or Hail Columbia. [Hoffendime places 
upon the bar, bottle and two glasses. Boon helps him- 
self; Hoffendime does likewise.] 

/. //. When friendts would quarrel und fight, dis is 
de juice dot brings them together in joyful unionship. 

C. B. Yer quite rite ; for I must say meself, that from 
me experience oi've found this to be the balm that heals 
all wounds, save those o' love. [Both drink.] 

Enter William Hubert, r. 

W. H. By George ! Cardinal, you here ? 

C. B. So appearances indicate. 

W. H. I must admit that I am late, and I'm sorry 
that it so should happen. 

C. B. Sorry ? 

W. H. Yes ; I had expected that at this meeting we 
could have arranoed all — 



8 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

G. B. Sargeant, ye ken't be more sorry thin I, fer 1 
hed also hoped that to-night all could hev been settled, 
cos the few hours I would obtain from off duty during 
the rest o' me stay in town, I wanted to devote to me 
darlin' Betsy Jane. 

W. H. The affairs of business come before those of 
love ; so tell me, is this a safe place for us to discuss our 
enterprise ? 

( '. B. Ha, ha, ha, no fear me f rind. Let no foolish 
thought tempt thy mind to doubt, fer to no better walls 
could we confide the secret o' our enterprise thin these 
that surround us here. [Aside.] And oi'm told that there 
lives no truer man to the knave thin that man [points 
to Hoffendime], for he lived so long in the old country in 
the very nest o' plots that he knows full well that a wise 
man heareth a great deal, but speaketh little. 

W. H. 'Tis not him that I fear. 

0. B. Uf 'tis I whom thou fearest would entrap thee 
into a foul den for some base end, thou shalt live to 
regret thy mistake. 

W. H. According to thy own confession thy early 
life was — 

G. B. Perchance vile, but nevertheless my deeds were 
performed wid some reference to honor. 

W. II. [Aside.] 'Tis so difficult to tell where his 
blackguardism stops and his honor begins, that a gentle- 
man of my position in the ladies' society circles can 
never be too careful in any dealings with men of the 
class of this subject ; still, it will never do for me to let 
him think aught else but that I trust him. [Aloud.] 
Fear you, no ! for to court such a sentiment would be to 
break a begotten faith in thy honesty ; but perchance 
I do show one sign of fear, 'tis cause of my ignorance, 
of where the door of this den leads to, and on what the 
windows look upon, for fancy doth -make me fear that 
some one may be lurking near us who would betray our 
secret ; therefore I wish to be careful. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 9 

C. B. It cost sich a lot ov trouble to be careful ; 
There is a devilish lot ov more fun in getting half-full. 
So uf you will, let yer confidence in me repose, 
Loike that ov the bee in the rose, 
Ye will ne'er need to ax the why or wherefore. 

W. H. Confidence in you, why, of course ; for you're 
a brick ; and if I owned the wide world, I would not fear 
to intrust it to thy care. 

C. B. Thanks, me most noble sor, for yer flatterin' 
sentiments. 

W. H. Now, then, to proceed to business : Yesterday, 
I received a letter from Australia confirming your 
report of the death of Clarence Laurence, who leaves a 
legacy of several millions to his son, Frederick Lau- 
rence. 

C. B. Yes ; glory be to God ! 

The old man has gone to roost upon that pole, 
That will ne'er let hym out ov Satan's hold. 

W. H. You should have more respect for the dead. 

C. B. Respect for Clarence Laurence ! Why, dog my 
buttons, ov he wuzn't the profoundest stinker ov a 
miser that the world e'er produced, an' the way in which 
he accumulated his millions is a marvel of that luck fer 
which the devil kin only account. 

W. H. You then knew him quite well ? 

G B. Yes, so, so ; but still, he knew me betther. 

W. H. How's that ? 

G. B. He knows me so well that he wouldn't permit 
me to stay in the colony. 

W. H. You were then quite young, I believe ? 

C. B. Yes, sor ; sweet twenty-five ; but a head ful ov 
ideas, fer I thought the toime hed come whin I shud 
loose meself from me mother's apron strings an' show me 
dear father that it wuz above the dignity ov me immortal 
heart to e'er allow him to give me any lip, and wid an 
expression that broke loose to crack a smile, an' actions 
that would crush the fairest maiden's heart, I plunged 



10 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

forth into the world, to do somethin' that would win fer 
me the richest gems ov manual labor. Sargeant, I won 
them [puts his hand to the back of his neck] ; an' rite 
there, fer not long afther I hed quit me mother's fire-side, 
Clarence Laurence wuz pursuing me with a load of 
buckshot that hed it iver hit me would undoubtedly hev 
broke me all up. 

W. H. Why, man ; he didn't want to kill you. 

C. B. Ye would have thought different had he been 
afther ye. 

W. H. What was the cause of all this ? 

C. B. Whin I left me parent's roof I went to work for 
Clarence Laurence, and soon became his confidential de- 
pository ; one day he took very ill, an thinkin' that he 
wuz goin to die, he call'd me to his bedside an' told me that 
in Alabama, America, he hed secretly lived wid a woman 
who bore hym a son. The mother dying ere the child 
wuz a month old, five years later, he married a widow 
an' took the child by the former woman to live wid hym, 
introducin' the boy to the neighbors as an adopted son. 
As the boy grew up to manhood he became anxious to 
unravel the mystery of his birth ; the old man, fearin' 
the disgrace, fastened upon his son a crime that drove 
hym out of the State. Shortly afterwards the old man's 
wife died; then he went to Australia. After he hed been 
sick about a month, an everybody thought that he would 
die, one noight I drove some ov his stock to a neighborin' 
village an sold thim fer wot I could get. About a week 
later I saw posted on a fence a reward fer me capture, 
an while I wuz contemplatin' wot I would do, I spied 
the old cuss, whom, moind ye, I'd left in bed dyin', mak- 
in' a bee-line fer me. Great huricane ! uf I didn't git 
up and git. I came to America, an' went straight to Ala- 
bama a lookin' fer the old man's son determined to make 
trouble fer the old codger. About four months ago I came 
here, hevin' traced the son to this place, an' wuz on the 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 11 

still hunt fer hym here whin I received a letter from me 
folks in Australia, informin' me ov the death ov Clarence 
Laurence, which knocked all my ideas ov revenge plum 
to the devil. Just about that toime my money gave out. 
I hed no friends upon whom I cou'd sponge, so I enlisted, 
got acquainted wid ye, told ye wot brought me out here, 
show'd ye the photograph ov Frederick Laurence, an ye 
at once recognized it as the face ov a frind ov yours, an 
beseeched ov me to keep the secret to meself that ye 
moight rob hym ov his inheritance. 

W. H. What was the crime that drove Fred. Mensor 
from home ? 

C. B. Ye mean Frederick Laurence. 

W. H. As you like, for Frederick Laurence and Fred. 
Mensor are one an' the same. 

C. B. I believe the old man accused hym ov forgin' a 
check. But, say boss, accordin' to promise, don't ye 
think that its about toime that we proceeded to make 
sum provision fer me welfare ? 

W. H. If we are successful in this enterprise, why 
bless your heart old fellow, you'll never know the hour 
whence you can make a wish that shall not be gratified. 

G. B. Excuse me, but as this is a mather o' bizness I 
shud loike to hev it conducted upon bizness principles. 

W. H. What would you have me do ? 

G. B. Give me five hundred dollars cash, an' yer 
promissory note fer ten thousand uf ye are successful. 

W. H. You shall have both ; but listen, an' I'll tell 
you how I mean to make the thing work. I shall first 
get Mensor out of the way, have him reported dead, then 
after making love to his widow, I will marry her. Men- 
sor's son, who is now but a mere babe in the arms, will 
naturally become my step-child, and I what ? its kindly 
benefactor ? No ; for from the hour that the law confers 
upon me the honor'd title of step-father, the moments of 
the child's lifehood shall be numbered ; for not long after 



12 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

Mrs. Monsor has become Mrs. Hubert, thou shalt read if 
thou cans't perform such an act, " Died, Charles Mensor, 
of suffocation;" and the same shadow of death that ushers 
his soul into eternity removes the last barrier to the 
prize of me heart, as the entire fortune will thus fall to 
my wife, and to grasp it from her hands, and wear the 
crown of a lord of millions upon this [puts his hand to 
his forehead] noble brow, she, though my wife, dare not 
oppose. Ha, ha, ha, — and you, Cardinal, why God bless 
you, I'll make you Governor of New York State. 

G B. [Flourishing a knife.] Out o' the way wid him, 
is it ? Ha, ha, ha, — Ye kin depend upon it that o'im the 
man to do the deed. But boss, allow me to state sum- 
thin' that is well f er ye to bear in mind,— it is that the 
collar niver fits the murderer so well as the instigator. 

W. H. Tush, — tush, — you're off, man; you miscon- 
strue my manner of acting, which is to remove Fred 
Mensor in that manner as to make it appear the direct 
consequence of accidental circumstances ; but indirectly 
it is the consequence of a premeditated murder. 

G. B. Direct or indirect, oi'm the man who will take 
a part in the dialect. 

W. H. The part that you shall play in this drama 
you shall be informed of it in time to learn it so well 
that your hand cannot fail in its purpose. 

C. B. Thin, begorra, ye don't want Mensor to commit 
suicide jist at present. 

W. H. For Heaven sake, no ! But I do want you, 
above all other things, to disclose our secret to no living 
mortal. 

G. B. Ahem ! But I say, Sargeant, how about the 
mortals that are dead ? 

W. H. The dead that can speak ; speak not to them, 
either. 

G. B. Many thanks ; I will observe it. 

W. H. [Looks at his watch.] Time bids me now 
depart ; but, before I go, let us have a social drink. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 13 

C. B. Sargeant, I hain't a drinking man ; 
Yet, I niver let the chance go by 

To wish a partin' frind good luck, 
An' wet the sentiment in a glass o' rye. 

Waiter, — whisky, an' gin. 

W. H. For me, a toddy. 

[Hoffendine hands each a glass, and they drink.] 

IT. H. Before I return to camp I'll manage to see 
Mensor, and if possible prevail upon him to enlist, and 
once in the army we can devise a racket that will seal 
his fate forever. 

C. B. But suppose he wont enlist. 

W. H. Then, By God! I'll have a drafting game put 
up that will fetch him, though it should cost me ten, 
nay more, twenty thousand dollars. 

C. B. Twenty thousand ! Whew ! 

W. H. Half my fortune ! but what care I, if I should 
lose all, so long as I can win the girl of my heart, and 
her millions. 

C. B. At wot toiine do you report for duty ( 

W. H. At seven o'clock, and you ? 

C. B. Noine o'clock ; five minutes grace; sober and 
clean. 

W. H. Then let us now appoint a time and place 
where we may meet and fix the preliminary plans of 
our enterprise. 

C. B. Name the place, and state the hour. 

W. H. To-morrow, at midnight, at the turnpike 
under the drooping-willow ; you know the one. 

G. B. Yes ; and I will be there. 

W. H. And, for God sake! make sure that no one 
follows you, for all might thus be lost. 

C. B. No fear, me friend, but wot I'll play me hand 
so well that uf ye hold the winning card, why then we 
shall win. 



]4 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

W. H. By the strength of me arm, and the energy of 
me spirit, our expectations shall not be foiled ; sogood-by 
until we meet a^ain. [Starts to go.] 

( '. B. Hold on, Sargeant. 

W. H. Well, 

C. B. Well, By Hocky ! uf I hain't clean gone an' 
forgot wot I wuz going to remark. 

W. H. Are you dry ? 

C. B. Never wuz so dry in all my life. 

W. H. Will you take a drink ? 

C. B. Yes, I think I will. 

W. H. Then let us make haste, and have a drink, for 
Iv'e only about ten seconds to spare. 

C. B. Why, that's long enough for several straws, 
An' time enough to suck them all. 

Waiter, — whisky an' gin. 

W. II. And for me. a toddy. 

[Hoffendime hands each a glass and both drink. | 

W. II. My friend, by-by. 

C. B. Ta-ta. [Exit Hubert, R. 

C. />'. Bartender, oi'm a bit ov a stranger in these 
parts, and wuz recommended to this ere den by a friend ; 
but oi'll be gol-darned uf I was iver told your name ; so 
wat may that sacred inscription be, whin a fellah don't 
know it ? 

/. H. Isam Hoffendime. 

C. B. I presume an importation from Cork ( 

I. H. Ya, I dinks 1 comes from dot neighborhood. 

C. B. Iver since the first moment me eyes lit upon 
ye the expression ov yer face led me to think that possi- 
bly ye moight be sum blood to me old pard, Jim Dead- 
shot, fer ye look enough loike hym to hang ye fer his 
crime. 

/. II. I would like to see dot fellah dot looks like 
me, and doan't you forgot it, dot I would make him 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, < »R NOT. 15 

[limping] walk <lis way, unci flatten [pushing his nose to 
one side] his nose out dot way. 

G. B. Ye don't want to let anything like that break 
ye up ; jist keep a stiff upper lip and make me a whisky 
punch widout water, an oi'll guarantee ye it will be all 
the same one hundred years from now. 

I. H. [Placing upon the bar a bottle and glass.] Dot 
vas a good-looking chap ye had in here. 

G. B. That depends from whence an' where ye catch 
the view. 

/. H. Dot vas true ; for in dis world everything vas 
position. 

G. B. [Filling the glass half full.] Mister Isam Hof- 
fendime. 

This is me observation, 

An' oi'll eat white lime, 

If this isn't me assertion, 

By all the eternal Gods, that's here internal, 

Or by death is made external, 

May yer wife bear ye no girls, 

But byes by the dozen : 

For while girls are useful to create a sensation, 

Then float it all over the nation, 

They haint no good, 

Whin it comes to chopin' wood. 

They're too fond ov sparkin', 

An' as to talk in', 

They will talk an elephant sick, a man deaf ; 

Fer on yarns they niver get left, 

They kin tell the biggest one in creation, 

From their store ov imagination, 

An' they'll swear its the gospel truth 

About Jones an' Mrs. Booth. 

Oh, immortal woman, 'tis the length ov thy tongue. 

That drives men from home to drink rum. 
[He drains the glass.] 

/. H. De Lord bless my patten' leather boots ef 
there vasn't more science in your sentiments then can be 
seen in a visit to de north pole, by gas-light, or is it to 



16 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

be view'd by a curb-stone, speckle-potato, at a Saturday 
night cock-tight. But mine enlighten' friendt, vat is 
your name ? 

C. B. By the most gracious will ov me mamma, 
And the efficacious spirit of me papa, 
Oi'm one of Satan's chips ; 

Though whin I die, I trust oi'll cross the Jordan cliff. 
Whin I wuz born I wuz several days behoind me toime, 
Yet the moment I caught me breath I yelled loike a 

porcupine, 
Jist to convince the folks that I hed not been left. 
One day I wuz taken to the chapel, 
And the parson, a rather seedy looking dunce, 
Widout consultin' me, sed to the audience, 
This is sich a red-headed coon, 
That I will name hym Cardinal Boon. 

/. H. Veil, Misder Cardinal Boon, you vas quite a poet. 
G. B. Yis, I know it, an' sor, I presume ye hev read 
sum ov me works. 
I. H. I dink not. 

G. B. Thin, by thunder, ye shud read the Police 
Gazette, as my works are a source ov weekly expostu- 
lation in that interesting family journal. 
1. H. Is dot so ? 

G. B. Exactly so. But, my friend Hoffendime. 
You will allow that there is a toime 
Whin the best ov lookin' men must part, 
An' as we now hev reach'd that climax, 
Oi'll bid ye a fond ta-ta, 
An' uf I don't agin see ye, 

It will probably be, becos ye won't agin see me. 
[Exit Boon, r., bowing. 

END OF ACT FIRST. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 17 

ACT II. 

[Same day. — Prior to sundown.] 

Scene I. — Sitting-room in the house of Frederick 
Mensor. Open fire-place. In the center of mantlepiece 
sits an old-time clock, each side of which is a vase. Table, 
chairs, etc. 

Enter Arabella Mensor with hat in one hand full 
of violets. 

A. M. Dear me ; I'm quite out of breath ; that horrid 
cow frightened me so, and I lost my tie, and tore my 
dress ; well,- - I don't care, — the flowers are safe [fixes 
the violets in the vases] and wont Fred be pleased when 
he comes home, and finds two vases full of violets, his 
favorite flower; but then he'll ask me where I got them; 
well, — I just won't tell him, because he would say, " I 
was a little fool to go so far after them, just to please 
him. [Glances at the clock.] It is quarter of five so 
I must go and dress the baby, and then get supper ready, 
for at six Fred will be home ; and if he should not find 
supper ready, while he would not say one word, I know 
that he would not like it ; nor is he an exception to the 
generality of men, as I think the most of them, when 
they come home from work, take off their coat hang it on 
the floor, toss their hat into a pail of milk, and stand 
around with gaping mouth until they get something to 
make them close it ; and as I wish to give my husband no 
occasion to do such horrid things, I will have his supper 
ready for him to eat the moment he enters the house. 
[Exit A. Mensor, r. Enter Hubert and F. Mensor, 
otherwise Frederick Laurence, l. 

F. M. There is no use arguing ; I can't so. 

W. H. But your country needs you. 

F. M. I'm too poor a man to fight for my country. 

W. H. That is not the question. 



18 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

F. H. To you, perhaps not; but to me it is every- 
thing. My wife and son must live ; if I were to go, who 
would support theui ' 

W. II. I will attend to that. 

F. M. Y-o-u ? 

W. H. Yes ; for I will place upon your farm a trusted 
man ; one whom I will guarantee will make the land to 
yield a good support for your family ; and, as a mark of 
my good faith, I will place in the Mechanics' Bank an 
amount sufficient to cover your family for all losses ap- 
pertaining to bad crop, and other failures of a farm. 

F. M. It would be against the dignity of my con- 
science to allow myself to be drawn so deeply into your 
favor. 

W. H. But you must, if you would ever win that love 
from your foster-father, that you lost by the misdeeds of 
your youth. 

F. M. [Aside] Great God ! dues this man know my 
secret '. [Aloud.] What know you '. 

W. H. Be calm, and trust me, for I know all. You 
are Frederick Laurence ; and you are living here under an 
assumed name, because you forged a note of your foster- 
fathers. 

F. M. That I forged a note is a lie ! 

W. H. Call it what you may, but you cannot remove 
the conviction that proof cast upon you. 

Enter Major Freshmonger, i,,ivith aletter in one hand 
and a parcel in the other. 

Ma. F. How d'ye do, Mensor? 

F. M. Very well, indeed. 

Ma. F. As I was leaving the post-office the dear little 
widow of our late lamented village barber, who is now 
post-mistress, asked me if I was going your way to be 
kind enough to bring you this letter. [Hands Mensor a 
letter.] 



FREDERICK EAURENCE, OR NOT. 1!) 

F. M. Thanks. [Looks at post-mark.] ' Tis from 
my foster-brother in Alabama. 

W. H. [Aside.] It may be a letter informing him of 
the secret of his birth, and the fortune that is his. 

F. M. I fear, Major, that this has brought yon a little 
out of your way. 

Ma. F. Well— I'll confess a little that way; still, 
I wanted to take the longest road home [aside] as I 
wis] ied to forget her, the dear little widow. 

F. M. Take a seat, Major ; and if you will stay long- 
enough I will give you some supper. 

Ma F. Many thanks ; but I guess I won't ; for the 
fact of the matter is, my wife is waiting home to put this 
mackerel to soak, and if I know myself, — that is, if 
I know her, — I think that 1 had better lie on the home- 
stretch. So, ofood evening. 

[Exit Freshmonger, i.., bowing. 

W. H. A queer genius. 

F. M. But a tried friend. [Opens letter and reads.] 

My Dear Foster-Brother : — The North and the 
South are now engaged in that conflict that will give to 
the victor the supreme right to dictate the future policy 
of our country. Trusting that you are actuated with 
that same passion of love as I, for the old State of Ala- 
bama, that for the love you bear your angel foster- 
mother, you will at once join me and fight to any meas- 
ure, that our honor may require for the home of our 
youth, and that property that has been rooted into my 
heart from infancy. 

Your affectionate foster-brother, 

Harry White. 
Home of my youth ; it was there that my foster- 
brother and I spent many happy days together, roaming 
across hill and dale; dabbling in the brook that 
wended its way through the green meadow. 

And when at eve I came home, perchance 

With but one shoe in my hand; 

' Tis true that dear foster-mother of mine, 

Would make things lively for a time ; 



'20 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

But then, when I would sob, as though my 

heart was broken, 
She would throw her arms around my neck, 
And gently hush my grief to rest, 
In slumber upon her breast. 

Born with a reckless spirit, I early in life commenced 
a wild career that was curbed this side of the grave, not 
by the oath of my foster-father, nor the unrelenting anger 
of his temper, but by the love of a pure woman, bound 
to me by no other ties than those that bind a woman to 
the child that competes with her own, for the heritage 
of its step-father. Nevertheless, this woman, often by a 
kind word and a loving embrace, did check my dissipated 
life, until I had near reformed. When one day my 
foster-father, finding a note of his forged, so fastened the 
crime upon me, as to show me the wide, wide world or 
the life of a convict. The former I chose, came hither 
and, after years of toil, I had just got comfortably fixed 
upon this little farm, when my foster-mother died, and 
though it's years ago since the day her spirit wended its 
way to that home where the gentle rays of the sun are 
perpetual, and the sweet strains of the harp never cease ; 
though hei 1 body was laid in its coffin, and the friends, 
one by one, followed the remains to the old churchyard 
and saw her form gently lowered in the green grass-plot, 
that as yet, had not been marked with the grave of a 
single being, I, though conscious of* this at the time of 
its occurrence, dare not be one of those solemn mourners, 
dare not gaze upon that deaf face and imprint upon 
those lips, as of old, the kiss of my affection, for fear of 
the penalty of a foster-father's curse. Broken-hearted, I 
visited a neighboring village, and quite by chance met 
the love of my childhood, who had become a governess in 
a Scottish family, and was upon the verge of being 
married to you, sir ; f told her of my misfortune, the love 
that was plighted in our youth was not dead, for its 
flame of affection burst forth in a radiant bliss that led 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 21 

us to the altar, and sir, when you asked me to leave this 
home, you asked me to leave this love desolate ; when 
you asked me to right against the South — fancy recalls 
the joyous incidents of my old home, and seems to stiffen 
the sinews of my arm, weaken my energy, upbraid my 
conscience, that I should dare to raise a hand to strike a 
Mow against that home of youth, and the soil wherein 
reposes all, yea, all that seemingly remains of a fond 
mother. 

Enter A. Mensor, r. 

^4. M. [Extending her hands to F. Mensor, who, tak- 
ing them in his, kisses her.] Have you been here long ? 
but why look so sad ? what has happened ? Do not fear 
to tell me, for though I am but a woman, if need be, I 
can carry a secret, locked in my bosom, to the grave. 

F. M. Darling, I have no secret that I would fear to 
entrust to thy feminine heart. But have you not one 
word of orreetinaf for Mr. Hubert ? 

A. M. [Aside.] To the man whom I jilted, 'tis but 
right that I now should be civil. [Aloud.] Oh, excuse 
me ; good-evening, Mr. Hubert. 

W. H. Good-evening, Mrs. Mensor ; I hope I find you 
well. 

A. M. Thank you ; at the present time I am enjoying 
good health. 

F. M. Darling, I have just received a letter from my 
foster-brother, who writes, begging me to join him and 
fight for the old home. 

A. M. But surely you will not go ? 

F. M. That Alabama home is very dear to my heart; 
for it was there, remember you, that our courtship first 
commenced. 

A. M. But dearest, what of that, so long as we are 
now happy together ? 

F. 31. Happy together ; yes, very happy ; but I fear 
it cannot last lonof. 



22 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

A. M. " Can-n-o-t last long- I" Why, what mean 
you? 

F. M. Dearest, at any hour may I be drafted into the 
Union army. Shall I wait for that call, or now make my 
choice ; for the Union or the old home ? 

A. M, [Sorrowfully.] My heart is too full of sudden 
grief for me to advise you. 

W. H. [Sneeringly.] Say, Mensor, you ain't going- 
back on the Union, for the sake of standing in with a 
State that lays no claim to your birth and from which 
you were driven 'cause you feared the strong arm of 
justice ? 

F. M. You, sir, know full w r ell that I never could have 
made my debut upon the world's stage without some 
parental assistance ; and though I know not who are the 
instigators of my birth, yet I do remember first breathing 
nature's balmy air in the dear old State of Alabama; and 
while I live not in that State, 'tis not because I fear jus- 
tice, but 'cause I know full well that behind the bars of a 
prison cell I could not prove my innocence, while with 
my liberty and time I could ferret out the criminal. 

W. H. A man's country should not suffer 'cause of 
some petty love of his. 

F. M. This is a love that binds me so deeply to the 
home of my childhood, that ere one inch of her rights 
were trampled upon, I w r ould die to resist that infringe- 
ment. 

A. M. Oh, Fred, you are not in earnest ? 

F. M. Yes, more than I ever was before. 

A. M. You then consider your old home dearer to 
your heart than I '. 

F. M. Oh, no ; you are a thousand times dearer, but 
then — 

A. M. But then, if you think it is your duty to thus 
desert me, and such action will meet with God's approba- 
tion, why, then, sir, I bid you go ; leave me penniless and 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 23 

thus left, alone I will strive to my uttermost to make 
that living for myself and thy child that thou refuseth 
me. 

F. M. No! By Heaven's kind will you shall not he 
left penniless ; for you shall iive like a lady, though 
the farm must be mortgaged. 

A.M. You persist in going ; you maintain that you 
are right; that you will fight against liberty ? 

F. M. I d-o-o ! 

W. H. Your foster-father's principles were those of a 
northern man. 

F. M. Quite true ; for that reason he left the south. 

W. H. Then, why halt you ; take a friend's advice ; 
be one of the gallant boys in blue ; for me thinks that 
your youth, noble spirit, and undaunted energy, would 
surely lead you to perform some daring deed upon the 
held of battle, that would win for you the bright laurels 
of a great fame, that when your foster-father heard how 
valor had won so fair a name, his heart would not only 
be full of forgiveness towards you, but he would be ready 
to lend you a helping hand to unravel the mystery of your 
birth, as well assist you to prove your innocence. 

F. M. Surely, you jest me. 

W. H . "Jest you?" No, I sjteak thus openly, be- 
cause I am your friend. 

F. M. And my dear wife, why arc you so still '. 

A.M. You are the man ; therefore your will, like 
that of all men, though it fills a woman's soul with joy, 
though it rends a woman's heart-strings from out her 
bosom, it is supreme, its power determines what shall be 
done. 

F. M. [Takes his wife in his arms.] My dear wife, I 
owe to you and my infant son a living, to the Union a 
portion of the fruit of my labor ; but, when in danger, 
nay more, when it would call upon me to crush to death 
the home of me childhood, should I obey the summons 
or take my stand to save my home '. 



24 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

A. M. Advise yon, never. But I'll speak the senti- 
ment of my heart. Your home you may save; your 
people may glory in its preservation ; but then you have 
no Union, and without Union there is no strength to 
found a government. 

F. M. [Kissing his wife.] You are right ; Oh my 
God! I have been dreaming; but I am now awake ; I 
can see it all; this is not a matter of love, but duty to 
preserve the union and to gain my foster-father's forgive- 
ness, to unravel the mystery of me birth, to prove to the 
world that I am an inocent man. 

A. M. [Aside.] And luck would now steal that form 

Of hope, and strike that blow of death ; 

Which truly implies what I've oft' heard said. 

For each being the world has a thorn. 

F. M. [To Hubert.] My dear friend, by thy words of 
wisdom has the veil of my selfish love been thrust aside, 
and like a vision appears there before me the scene, as 
my fancy draws it, of the strife of Bunker Hill, the 
father of our country crossing the Delaware, the hanging 
of the British spy, and final surrender of the great army 
of British Lords and Sirs: knowing these facts, dare I 
hesitate — Oh, I did, but it was the fault of memory's 
recollection of the face of a woman, who labored to make 
a cheerful home for a poor orphan child, and who reared 
him up to love the Great Creator of the Mighty Uni- 
verse. Noble woman ! if I now cause thee one shadow of 
discontent, may that mystic veil cloud thy heart but for 
a moment; may thy bosom swell with the love of old, 
cany thou the glad tiding to God, of the stand I now 
take for freedom, upon the same principles that actuated 
the noble patriots of " 70 ;" and in comemmoration of the 
heroes that perished in that long struggle for liberty, I 
leave my fire-side and go to battle for the right. Dear 
foster-mother; Queen of angels, may thy glad tidings to 
God so enchant all angels in that heavenly castle above, 
that they shall so quickly speed with God's message of 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 25 

inspiration to the hearts of the living, that ere the setting 
of another sun, five million shall go to war, with heart 
and spirit undaunted, the brilliant light of kind heaven 
shining upon them and the white vving'd angels of hope 
and victory ever near them, beckoning them to fight for 
the freedom of those beings whose form is like ours, but 
whose skin is of a darker hue, and whose back bears the 
mark that tells the tale of the sunny days of the negro 
on the southern plantation. These beings shall be free, 
the Union saved. 

And the laurels of victory and fame, 

Triumphantly shine beside freedom's immortal name. 

Our conquered foes with unalloyed friendship we will 
embrace, and upon one rock together we will forever 
stand and raise the proud banner of E pluribus Unum, 
that shall other nations fill with envy, and make the 
crowned heads tremble upon their throne. 

W. H. [Seizing F. Mensor's hand and shaking it.] 
Bravo ! You shall live to know God's blessing if you but 
follow the words that you have spoken. 

F. M. [Taking his wife by both hands.] I shall cany 
out my sentiments with but one regret, and that is, to 
leave this love ; but Hubert, if you will now walk on 
ahead, I will join you at the cross-roads. 

W. H. So you say, so f do. [Aside.] So far has 
luck favored me, and by the help of the Devil shall it 
continue to do so. [Exit Hubert, L., bowing. 

F. M. [To his wife, who is weeping] Weep not, 
sweet angel of my life, for as I gaze upon thy fair face, 
I do not forget the passion of love thou manifested for 
me by accepting my hand and heart in preference to that 
of the man who has just left us ; he could, perchance, have 
given thee a position amongst the obnoxious elite of 
society ; and if the devil played the happier part in thy 
home, the luxuries of wealth would apparently cover 
that curse ; but he could not have given thee a fonder or 



26 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OK NOT. 

more constant heart than that which beats under this 
racro-ed shirt. 

A. M. Say no more of the man whom I once thought 
I loved, but whom I now wish to forget. 

F. M. Are you then contented with your lot ? 

A. M. To know that you love me with a manly love, 
to know that you worship the union for manly reasons, 
fills my heart full of content. 

F. M. And you think that I do not wrong to give to 
my country, as a duty, the life that but two short years 
ago, when thou not less than now, was robed in all the 
beauty of a young and glittering maiden; and I, stand- 
ing by thy side, solemnly swore 1 was yours until death. 

^4. M. No ; for thy country's sake, I release thee 
from that vow. 

F. M. [Embracing his wife.] God bless you, my 
dear; recollect that when I made that vow the country 
was at peace, but now 'tis engaged in a strife that breaks 
rank, file and all former vows. [Kisses his wife.] 

A. M. [Weeping.] From the hour that you leave me, 
life will become a galling load. 

F. M. Let the tears of sorrow that thou wouldst shed 
for me, flow in the stream of thy affection for our boy, 
that thou will teach him 

To love the works of God, 
His neighbor as himself; 
Protect the poor, 
And live a life within the law. 

And perchance, I should never return to this dear 
home again, thou wilt not let our boy forget the name of 
father; and thou wilt tell him that his father died, fisrht- 
ing for freedom. 

A. M. Thy name shall be as familiar and dear to the 
bosom of our boy, as water to the fish. 

F. M. I will now join Hubert and go with him to see 
the provost-marshal. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, <>R NOT. 27 

A. M. But why hurry, you've had no supper ? 
F. M. I could not eat one morsel until I knew what 
my God bid me do. [Embraces his wife, who starts 
afresh to weep.] 

Weep not, sweet angel of my life, 

As no pen can ever attain to tell 
The passion of my love for thee, my wife, 
My darling Arabel. [Kisses his wife.] 
God bless you, and give you a brave heart. Good-by ; 
g-o-o-d-b-y. [Exit F. Mensor, l. 

A.M. He is gone; and my heart was so distressed 
that I could not say good-by; and he said, "be brave;" 
none know the task that sentiment implies, until one 
sees that magnanimous form of human blessedness, which 
by a constant affection has imbued into one's life each 
hour it lived, some new bright fancied dream, that in the 
hour of delight one grasped with all their soul, while 
there leaped from one's bosom, with each moment's 
breath, a vision of unwritten glory, an eager radiant 
bliss, that blossomed so sweetly, and glimmered so brightly, 
as to light the path in which one's feet must daily tread, 
to a realm that seemed to encircle the kingdom of a pure 
hope, pierced by an arrow of the sublimest faith, and 
with eyes looking up to a most gracious heaven, have I 
patiently waited for the granted aspiration of such adream; 
but to now realize that my most imploring prayers 
were in vain ; to see my ideal of hope vanishing down 
the stream of a nation's bloody turmoil, not only shatters 
the pride of a happy mortal, but makes it as well a 
mournful task for one to any longer have faith, much 
less to be brave. And when the seat of my affection is 
thus dealt with, 

It seems to me as though there Was no God; 
The starry sky, the mystic ocean, 

The boundless land upon which we trod, 
The twinkling stars, and man in all his motions, 

Had all by nature been wrought: 
Faith in luck, and hope in one's self-achievement, 
Was the lesson nature taught. 



28 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OF NOT. 

If the provost-marshal tells my husband that he is 
qualified, baby and I will be left all alone : Oh, God ! 
what a world, full of shifting scenes ; have I not need 
of the patience of Job ? [Exit A. Mensor, R. 

END OF ACT II. 



ACT III. 

[Six months later. — ■ Midnight.] 

Scene I. — -I common in /A" State of Virginia ; F. 
Mensor s overcoat and canteen are lying on (he fop of a 

small bush. 

Enter H CHERT, I,. 

W. H. Not here; all then, perhaps, is safe; if so, 
then within my grasp is the hour when I ran strike the 
blow of my heart's desire. Not quite three years ago, Mrs. 
Mensor was a governess in the house of a wealthy 
family, and becoming acquainted with her, I was at once 
infatuated with her amorous face and form. I sought 
her love, and had apparently gained it : for the day of 
our marriage had been set, when Frederick Mensor 
appeared upon the scene; she claimed him as an old love, 
and cast me aside as though I were but a dog. This 
insult burst my heart's strings with indignation, while 
my bosom heaved to and fro with the vow of my 
revenge. My only thought at the time was to take 
Mensor's life: still I dare not openly murder him; as 
when I thought of the chances I took by such a ih~i't\, 
the penalty thereof rilled my heart with fear; cold sweat, 
in clammy drops, stood out upon my brow; while my limbs 
became as stiff as though 1 already stood upon the scaf- 
fold, and felt the grip of the rope around my neck. Bet- 
ter reason caused me to bide the time when I could 
exterminate him after that style, that I could defy the 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, <>K NOT. 2!) 

world, as big and wonderful as it is, to lay his death at 
my door; and glad am I that I did wait, for if I now 
win, I win the girl of my heart, — and three millions in 
the bargain ; and now haste prompts me to be quick, 
lest I should lost' the chance that night after night for 
the past six months have I watched for, and now is only 
mine by the cautious tread of my steps. When run- 
ning the gauntlet of sentinels, even to my breath did I 
fear to draw, when passing those trusted guards, lest the 
gentle sigh might betray my presence. None know so 
well as I 'tis the custom of Mensor to hang his overcoat 
and canteen upon some handy bush ; a custom, by the 
by, that I taught him to better serve my pur-pose. [Groping 
around he rinds Mensor's coat and canteen.] Hallo, 
here's his coat, and there's the canteen. [Taking a vial 
out of his pocket he empties its contents in canteen.] A 
drink from this canteen blasts forever the life of Men- 
sor, whilst mine, it makes a thing of eternal joy in this 
world. [Lays coat and canteen back on bush.] But, 
hark! I think I hear the sound of approaching footsteps; 
I presume 'tis Mensor; so I will return to my quarters 
and prepare for the rest of the drama. [Exit Hubert, L. 
Enter F. MENSOR, R. 
F. M. The night is growing cold ; so I think that I 
will put on my overcoat. [Puts coat on, takes canteen 
in his hand.] My loved one, but for thee, many a cold 
and cheerless night would I have spent. Ha, ha ; it 
would break the Colonel all up if he were to hear of 
the boys drinking whisky. I've only a few drops left, 
and it is about as good a thing as I know of to warm the 
inner part of man. So here goes. [Takes a drink.] 
Whew: it went down so fast that I didn't get a 
taste of it, so here goes again, a little slower and a little 
surer. [Drains the canteen.] Whew; but Great Christopher! 
what an unnatural taste this whisky has ! Well, I guess 
it's only an idle fancy of mine. ' Tis manv months since 



30 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

last I heard from my wife; can she be sick, or could she 
have forgotten me ! No ! for no truer or fonder wife than 
she ever breathed nature's sweet air; but, still, 'tis 
very strange that I do not hear one word from 
her; vet, I will not think hard of her; for T have no 
doubt she is extremely busy in her efforts to make the 
farm pay. God bless her! But how strange my head 
feels : and my eyes are growing dim ; even to my legs, 
I feel funny. Oh, my God ! What have T done ! Drank 
too much of that darned whisky. No, impossible; for 
the little that I drank could not effect me in this man- 
ner. [He staggers.] Ah, slumber, get thee from mine 
eyes ; let not thy net of stupidness weave its web around 
me while thousands of innocent soldiers are slumbering 
under the Mag of freedom. 

Enter Hubert, Boon, << nd <>t/<rr soldiers, u, unseen by F. 
Mensor, and they, with the exception of Hubert, do 

not see MENSOR. 

W.If. [Aside, to his men.] Halt! Hark! [All lis- 
ten.] I thought I heard a voice. Fall back, while I go 
forward and investigate. [Soldiers retreat.] 

F. M. [Staggering.] Tis most time that I was 
relieved. 

W. H. [Aside.] In a few moments the game will be 
mine. 

F. M. [Staggering.] Each moment makes it more 
difficult for me to keep my head above my feet. Oh, my 
God! help me for my country's sake; save me for my 
honor's sake. [Staggers and falls.] 

W. H. [Aside.] The bird is caught. 

[Exit Hubert, l. Re-enter "•ill/ B<n>n and other soldiers. 

W. If. [Kicking the form of Mensor.] What's this, 
a man ' 

Soldiers. Yes, sir. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 31 

W. H. Advance Corporal, and ascertain if the man is 
dead '. 

C. B. [Examining form of Mensor.] An' begdra, he's 
not dead. 

W. H. He is then asleep. 

C. B. Yis, sor ; an' his breath smells ov lightning. 

W. H. You mean that he is drunk. 

C. B. Be jabers, uf that isn' jist wot I mean. 

W. H. Note that, comrades. 

Soldiers. Indeed we do. 

W. H. Corporal ; what sentinel is this \ 

C. B. Frederick Mensor. 

W. H. Note that, comrades. 

Soldiers, indeed we do. 

W. H. Then let not this incident fade from your 
memory ; for you all will be summoned as witnesses 
against this man. 

END OF ACT III. 



ACT I V . 

[Six months and one week later. — Evening.] 

Scene I. — Outside of prison, and viewofa cell inside, 
in the State of Virginia; moonlight occasionally ob- 
scured from window of cell. 

Enter Hubert, l. 

W. H. Soon will the inner walls of this magnificent 
structure contain Frederick Mensor, and from whence he 
walks, but to walk in front of his grave ; to sit upon his 
coffin, and be tumbled into it as ceremoniously as the 
tender affections of his loving comrades will permit. He 
made a hard fight to show that he had not drank suffi- 
cient whisky to make him drunk, and that his being 
sound asleep was the cause of natural debility, from the 



32 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

inarch of the preceding day. Nevertheless, he was found 
guilty; the court, in pronouncing sentence, said : "The 
testimony of the prosecution plainly shows that he was 
so beastly drunk as to neglect a most important duty, 
affording the enemy a grand opportunity to steal a march 
upon our men, and murder hundreds of innocent beings ere 
they had time to draw their swords; therefore it was the 
rinding of the court that he was guilty of a misdemeanor, 
punishable only by death." Tweedledee, tweedledum; 
so far it is all I could wish. [Exit Hubert, L. 

Enter with drain guard, soldiers, F. Mensob as pris- 
oner, 11. Guard unlocks door of cell; enter Mensor ; 
exit soldiers, R. 

F. M. 1 have this day received the sentence of an 
earthly judge. Death is the penalty of my crime ; yet 
1 cannot die ere 1 ask a kind heaven to bear witness of 
my innocence. 1 know full well 'tis the sad chance of 
war to die thus destitute of all friendly aid. All day 
lono" have I consumed in deep meditation. It now 
approaches night. Will it he a night like the previous 
one, full of fearful visions that seem to haunt me still ( 
I thought that I was led from out this dungeon-cell, 
tied fast to a stake, and there shot to death ; my carcass 
was rolled up in an old tent and cast into a ditch, while 
my spirit flew to the abode of my wife, and witnessed 
her sufferings of anguish upon learning of my fate; fast 
rolled the hot tears down her cheeks; she wrung her 
hands in grief; she cried out to God to comfort her 
wretched soul for the judgment he brought upon her 
head. 1 stood by, a witness to her agony, hut dumb as 
the ox to speak to her, as powerless as the humming 
bird to comfort her bleeding heart, I awoke from my 
dream with a start : and my heart brolcen with grief. 
<) God! hear this, my humble prayer; let not my 
mind he haunted still with that horrible sentence of 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 33 

death ; that even now methinks I can feel death's cold 
and unmerciful hand upon my heart. Deprive me of my 
memory that I may no longer recall the faces of the 
loved ones at home. O God, I have striven hard to live 
according to nature's true intent; is my crime so beastly 
as to bring this judgment upon my head '. No, no; 'tis 
the curse of William Hubert, who told and swore to 
lies before a pretended court of justice. Standing here 
to-night, on the brink of eternity, knowing not whether 
the angels of heaven or hell greet me on the morrow, 
at that gate that obscures the unknown future of mys- 
ticism from the rye of the living, I launch upon Wil- 
liam Hubert, the curse of my heart; may the day lie not 
a distant one that shall bring to him a mishap that will 
spoil his beauty forever ; that will make him a crawl- 
ing cripple for the balance of his lifetime; and hence- 
forth may his vile conscience be to his heart of sin like 
the lighted torch to the Alpine forest; the flame of a 
living fire within his bosom ever burning with the blaz- 
ing heat of purgatory: shorn from the love of even a 
single being ; free from all that would lessen his anguish ; 
may he thus live, enjoying as well as he can the fierce, 
torturing agony of such a life until the day of judgment. 

When by warring winds the stormy blast of hell, 

With restless fury shall drive his spirit on, 

To that haven, where everlasting the fire for the 

worst of sinners dims. 
May there unceasing play his wretched hands, 
Now this way, now that way, glancing to shake oft 
The heat still falling fresh ; bends 
His form in anguish, that nothing can ever mar ; 
There, oh, God ! Ye have my curse to the living fiend 
• of my life. I am now ready to meet my fate. 

Enter Jailer, r. 

Jailer. Halloa! You old card monte. 
Guard. Ye rascal ; state yer bizness an' git. 



.S4 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

Jailer. If you are mad, cause of that little game, I'll 
write von a check for the amount you lost, 

Guard. I haintmad becos 1 lost ; but oi'm mad becos 
I know that ye an' that blarsted lieutenant enter'd into 
a conspiracy to rob me. 

Jailer. Get out, you old know-nothing: Ahem: 
attention ! [Saluting guard.] Paddy, I've come here to 
deliver a dispatch to Mensor, by order of the colonel. 

Guard. Well, proceed. 

[Jailer unlocking door of cell, enters, hands Mensor the 
dispatch, then exits from cell, locking the door after 
him.] 

Jailer. 1 have fulfilled me mission. 

Guard. Thin git. 

.hitler. Thank you ; I prefer to walk. [Exit Jailer, R.] 

F. M. A dispatch! From whom ' My wife — can she 
be sick? And it has been opened! By whom ; The colonel; 
for fear it might contain some deadly weapon, with 
which I might take my life. [Opening dispatch, reads.] 
Frederick Mensor, sir: Your foster-father is dead : be- 
fore dying he acknowledged you as his son, and stated 
that your mother was an octoroon, and that .she died 
shortly after your birth. He further states that the 
crime lie placed upon your head was his own fabrication) 
done to drive you from the State, he fearing that the 
public manner you pursued to ascertain who your par- 
ents were might lead to disclosures that would disgrace 
him. In his will he bequeathed his entire fortune to you, 
and in case of your death, it shall go to your family. — 
Your Attorney. Major Freshmonger. Great God! At 
the last hour of my life I learn who my parents were . 
just when I must forsake' life; a fortune and the proof of 
my innocence as a forger are thrown at my feet. Oh, God! 
Is this not mockery ; is this not taunting a poor mortal ? 
And the man, who. out of compassion, played the part of 
m\ foster-father, was my own parent ; he of whom I am 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 3o 

the flesh and blood, conceived a villainous deed to ruin 
his son, that his honor might be saved. 'Tis well for my 
family's sake that the mystery is solved : 'tis better still 
that they should inherit what I cannot, c-a-n-n-o-t — why 
not '. There might yet be a chance for me. 

[Glances around, then examines the wall.] 

Enter with drum, soldiers, R.; guard is exchanged ; 
soldiers exit, R. 

F. M. How I hate that drum's discordant sound, 
For without liberty, in its music 
There is only to be found — a cursed misery. 

If I stay here, to-morrow seals my doom ; the present 
moment is mine ; all depends upon the instant, and by 
yonder pale moon I swear to make one bold attempt to- 
night for the life that my heart beats for, and thou, O 
my God, knowest is rightly mine. [Takes off his shoe, 
taking from inside a spoon ; he puts the shoe on again, 
and digs around the window.] The mortar here is like a 
rock. 

Enter Messenger, apparently out of breath. 

Guard. [Raising gun to his shoulder.] Who goes 
there ? 

Mess. A friend. 

Guard. Friend, advance and exhibit your passport. 

Mess. [Giving guard passport.] He has not yet been 
shot ? 

Guard. No. • 

Mess. [Aside.] Thank God, that I am yet in time to 
save a life. [Aloud.] Show me at once to the head- 
quarters of the commanding officer. 

Guard, But begorra ; I dare not leave me post. 

Mess. But I'm the bearer of an important dispatch. 

Guard. I don't deny it ; but be jabers, its fer me to 
look out fer me interest ; an' me interest is to stick to 



:3(! FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

me post. But hark ! [Both listen.] Some one is com- 
ing. 

Enter Com. Officer and Hubert, l. 

Com. 0. I would not let him know that a pardon was 
being sought for him, lest it should raise a hope that 
should be crushed. 

W. H. Even though I received a pardon for him, I 
would not let him know it until I had tested the legality 
of the pardon. 

Guard. [To mess.] The foremost man is the kernel 
hymself. 

Mess. [Saluting officer.] I am the bearer of an im- 
portant dispatch. [Hands his dispatch.] 

Com. Of [Opening dispatch, glances over it.] Thank 
God [to Hubert], comrade, I have here a pardon for 
Frederick Mensor. 

W. H. [Aside.] Great thunder ! [Aloud.] I am real glad. 
[Aside.] This pardon may save him from the order of 
the court, but not from my vengeance. 

Com. Of. [To Guard.] Go with all speed and bring 
the Jailer. [Exit Guard, R. 

F. M. [Removing a stone from one side of window.] 
At last, I have that stone out, and oh, how it fills my 
heart with a joyful hope that leads me on 

To improve the fast fleeting hour, 

Ere it shall go by ; 
For life is but a flower. 

If I stay, alas ! I die ; too soon I die. 

[Removes more stones, making a hole large enough 
for him to pass out of.] Few have been the places of 
my abode that I would not return to, but of them all 
this is the worst. Now, for liberty, or death in my 
tracks. [Exit Mensor through opening. 

Knter Jailer arid Guard, r. 

Com. Of. Let the Jailer open the door of Frederick 
M elisor's cell. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 37 

[Jailer opens the door ; enter Com. Officer, Hubert 
and Mess. 

Com. Of. Great God ! but the man is gone ! 

W. H. What! Escaped? 

Mess. Yes, and through that opening. 

Com. Of. How can I bear this mortification ! 

W . M. [Aside.] And I am duped. 

END OF ACT FOURTH. 



ACT V. 



[Six months and two weeks later. — Evening.] 

Scene I. — Office of Jack Lees Tavern in the State 
of Virginia ; a desk, upon which rests the register of 
the tavern; tables, chairs etc. 

J. L. [Holding a bottle over a small glass.] 

Empty is the bottle, the whisky is all gone; 
Oh, what shall we do for something to drink 
before morn. 

Enter Dr. Wells, l. 

Dr. W. Have you no whisky in this house ? 

J. L. Not a drop. 

Br. W. Damn such a place as this. 

J. L. Wal, Doctor, thar ain't no use in yer damin' 
this ar place, fer I've always reckoned on keepin' a little of 
the oil of joy within the reach of every man that comes to 
this ar house ; but since those darn'd blue-coats have 
been around here the old blue-blooded gineral won't 
allow me to handle the stuff; for he says the Yanks are 
terrible beings to catch on to the j uice on the sly. 

Dr. W. Have you no neighbor near here from whom 
you could borrow a few drops ? 

J. L. Wal, I reckon I might, if I tried. 



38 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

Dr. W. [Aside] What an exasperating old fool. 
[Aloud.] ■ My good friend, I've got a patient up stairs 
who is very weak ; I've got to get her out of this house 
to-night ; but I'm afraid I can't do it unless I can get a 
little whisky to stimulate her. 

./. /,. Hark! [Both listen.] I hear some one com 
ing down the walk ; I guess it's that ar boy of mine, an' 
I'll send him out after some juice for you. 

Enter George Caldwell and Fred. Mensor, r. 

[Aside.] No, 'tis not him, but strangers. 

G. C. [Aside to Mensor.] Wal, I reckon you'll make 
the rest of it without much trouble. [Offers Mensor a 
purse and bottle.] In that ar purse you'll find some 
gold, which I reckon will come handy upon more than 
one occasion before that 'ar journey of yours is ended ; 
and that 'ar bottle is brim full of the best Kentucky juice 
that 'ar in this here country. 

F. M. [Aside.] The purse I'll accept with many 
thanks ; [Aloud.] but the whisky, never ; [Aside.] L for it 
is linked too sadly with my downfall, for me to ever dare 
touch it. 

Dr. W. [To Mensor.] Excuse me, stranger, for inter- 
rupting you ; but I heard you say something about 
whisky; if you have any of that liquid, for God's sake 
spare me a few drops of it to stimulate the heart of a 
sick woman. 

G. C. [Handing Dr. Wells the bottle.] Wal, if that 
are the case, I reckon that you are welcome to every 
drop that this 'ar bottle contains, with the wish of m y 
friend and me, that it will restore that 'ar creature to 
good health. 

Dr. W. Thanks to you both, gentlemen, for the whis- 
ky, as well as for your kind wishes for my patient's 
welfare. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 39 

G. C. and F. M. [Together.] You are very welcome. 
Exit Dr. Wells, bowing, l., followed by •/. Lee. 

G. C. Wal, my friend ; T reckon I will now have to 
leave you. 

F. M. I hate to have you go; for I know full well, 
that I never again shall meet a being so full of that un- 
ceasing manly friendship, as that which you have shown 
to me, a stranger. 

G. C. Wal, now, don't mention it ; just put your 
hand in mine, and let us have that good old sincere part- 
in' squeeze of the State of Virginia. [They shake hands.] 
Good-by. 

F. M. Good-by, my dear friend . g-o-o-d-b-y. 

Exit Caldwell, r. 

F. M. Am I left alone ? [Looking around.] Yes : 
and it seems like a dream ; but no, 'tis life's reality of the 
sad experience of an unfortunate mortal, who lives in 
constant fear of his dreaded pursuers. The more that I 
allow fancy to lead me on in thought, the more fully do 
I realize the desperate chances I took the night of my es- 
cape, for ere I'd left the camp, the enemy was upon our 
men; each moment I expected to be seized by sonic 

union or rebel soldiers, if by the former, to face the do 

from which I was fleeing; but if by the latter, to starve 
to death in Libby Prison. Filled with the fear that 
either might befall me, I crouched down low behind 
some bushes, until the roar of the cannon and the flash of 
the musket could only be seen and heard in the distant 
horizon ; when lo ! I heard the cry of a dying man for 
help ; approaching him, I asked, " is there anything that 
I can do for you, my comrade ? " Handing me a packet, 
he replied : " take this letter ; amongst other things, it 
will give you the address of my mother ; write, and tell 
her that her boy never forsook the dear old flag, and 



40 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

that he died for freedom;" intense was the darkness, yet 
for all that I could see the form of a human being, ly- 
ing beside that of my comrade, raise itself to a sitting 
position, and, grasping his sabre, I saw him raise it in 
mid-air, while he remarked, " die, you Union devil — ere 
the sabre could descend I seized that of my comrade, and 
buried it deep into the villain's heart; God ! What 
a gasp he gave. 

I knew not what impulse inspired meat the time ; but 
seizing the body of my victim I dragged it along the 
ground, and had gone but a few yards when my prog- 
ress was impeded by a stone wall;-then, for the first time, 
the thought flashed upon my mind to change my clothes 
for those of the man whom I had murdered. This I at once 
did, leaving my private correspondence in my coat 
pockets. Thus, thought I, this man would be taken for 
me and my life would be no longer sought after ; no, 
no, not so ; the features would betray me, and without a 
i Loment's thought other than that of crushing the fea- 
tures of my victim beyond recogniton, I loosened a stone 
from the wall by which I stood, and as I raised it in 
mid-air, the moon ushered out from behind a cloud and 
shone for the first time in full blaze into the face of the 
man that I had murdered, and revealed to me the face 
of my foster-brother. I became dazed with astonishment ; 
the rock descended and crushed the skull of my boyhood 
mate, — my foster-mother's darling. <) God! that was 
more than I could bear : weeping, I turned away and 
staofffered I knew not where, until, overcome with grief, 
I sank to the ground in a trance. When I next awoke, I 
found myself upon rebel soil and in a rebel household. 

Enter Hubert, l. with his arm in a sling. 

W. H. Great God! 'Tis Fred. Mensor, and alive! 

F. M. You are not mistaken. 

\V. 11. But I thought that you were dead ! 



FREDERICK EAURENCE, OR NOT. 41 

F. M. Does not your conscience tell you that you 
have so persecuted an innocent man to death, that God has 
brought that one back to life to seek revenge upon thy 
head ? 

W. H. No ; for I know no God, and fear no man. 

F. M. Because you now hold the upper card. 

You think you have the best of me, 
And so play the coward's meaner part ; 
All right; go ahead, base infidel, we'll see 
Who wins at last. 

W. H. Call me not a coward, as with the snap of my 
fingers I can have you arrested as a war criminal over 
whose head hangs the sentence of death. 

F. M. Why taunt me with such a threat ? 

W. H. Because I want your wife as mine. 

F. M. My wife as yours? Never, never; while there 
yet remains a spark of life within this form. 

W. H. But, by the devil, I will, or I'll see you inert 
the doom from which you now flee. 

F. M. My God as my witness, I flee from that which 
is not justice. 

W. H. No doubt you've learned the value of life 
which, if you would have, flee to some other country. 

F. M. What, go and leave you, base impostor, to 
carry out your vile design, no ! I prefer to remain and 
thwart your plans at the cost of my life. 

W. H. And you will not go ' 

F. M. No! I will remain to launch my curse upon 
thee, when man can meet man as man should meel 
man. 

W. H. [Drawing an army pistol] For all that I'm 
ready now ; but don't you dare to move or I'll blow your 
brains out. 

F. M. Ha, ha ! You coward. 

Enter Dr. Wells and J. Lee, l. 



42 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

Dr. W. Well, what means all this ? 

IT. //. [Aside to Mensor.] I will give you one more 
show ; Leave the country to-night, to-morrow 'twill be too 
late. [Aloud.] I had a slight dispute with this man, 
during which he call'd me a liar, and at the point of my 
revolver 1 made him retract it. 

J. L. [Aside to Hubert.] Wal, I reckon the best 
thing I can do, is to kick that ar blackguard out. 

W. If. [Aside.] No, I would not have you do that ; 
for he's but a harmless crank. 

F. M. Gentlemen, the villain lies; and before God and 
man, I will yet make him pay dearly for those senti- 
ments. 

Dr. W. I fear there is something yet behind all this. 

W. II. Whether there is or not, it can never affed 
you, except — 

F. M. Except, to cause him to express some sentiment 
of surprise, that you so play the knave so well. [To 
Lee] Mine host, if supper is ready, pray take me to the 
room, wluie I may eat that goodly meal; this man 
[pointing to Hubert] I will see later. 

J. L. Just follow me, and I reckon I can seat you to 
a meal from whence you can replenish the inner man to 
your full satisfaction. Exit Mr uxor and Lee, L. 

Dr. \Y. A strange visitor; some old friend of yours '. 

W. H . No: a crank, whom I've often befriended out 
of pity. 

Dr. W. Your nets of pity seem to have made him 
ferocious. 

IF. //. Tis the way of such fools as he, who never 
know they have a friend until they lose one. But, 
Doctor, let us change the subject for another of more im- 
portance. How is your patient this eve ' 

Dr. W. She is so nervous that I fear to make the 
journey to-night. 

W. II. I tear not that so much as to stay here until 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 4:> 

to-morrow, for in all probability the rebels will surround 
this place before the dawn of day ; no doubt they would 
detain you for a week; and, to subject your patient for so 
long a time to the poor accommodations of this one-horse 
shanty, would not the result be more serious than the 
ride to-night ? 

Dr. W. You are right; and if you will excuse me, I 
will get the patient ready for the journey. 

W.H. Why, certainly. Exit Dr. Wells, L. 

W. H. If I can play my hand so well to-night as not 
to loose a single trick, why then, most assuredly, I shall 
win. 

Enter A. Mensor, sifj>i><>rtc<l by Dr. Wells, l. 

W. H. Good-evening, Mrs. Mensor. 

A. M. Good-evening, sir. 

W. H. I trust that the mere fact of your leaving this 
irksome den, tins eve. makes you feel quite happy. 

^4. M. Happy '. No : for I so mourn the loss of that 
one, who was dearer to my heart than life, that I care 
not whether I go or stay. 

W. H. Quite true ; your loss must wound you deeply; 
but then your sudden acquisition of so large a fortune, 
and its care, should give you enough else to think of, to 
somewhat abate your grief. 

A. M. Two weeks of wealth's precious fortune has 
not taught me that, gold can mend a broken heart; or 
shall I ever know the value of that metal while there 
remains within the sacred crevice of my bosom a sorrow- 
that belches forth in a lowering semi-tone, unfolding to 
my bleeding heart the terrible fate of that one who, to 
clasp within these arms but once again, I would cast 
aside forever the brilliant fortune that by his death is 
mine. 

Dr. W. [Aside.] Sunshine ami blazes ! if that man 
isn't getting my patient terribly worked up. [Aloud.] 



44 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

Mr. Hubert, will you have the kindness to see it' the car- 
riage is ready '. 

W. H. Why, certainly ; with all my heart. 

[Exit Hubert r., bowing. 

A. M. Doctor, you seemingly have such a kind face. 
and so goodly a manner, that 1 would like to tell you 
the secret that weighs so heavily upon my heart. 

Dr. W. You may, but by-and-by. 

A.M. No; not by-and-by, for it then might be 
too late. 

Dr. W. [Aside.] To refuse to listen to her might do 
more harm than good. [Aloud.] You may tell me now ; 
but then von must not allow yourself to become agitated. 

A.M. Dear Doctor: supposing that you knew a 
young girl who was an orphan residing in a Scottish 
family, and this young maiden, though pledged to 
another, one day met the love of her school days ; the old 
flame of* affection returned and tilled the heart of each 
with a love so [Hire, that for them to live apart would 
blast forever the life of each. So upon the maiden's 
seventeenth birthday, they lawfully became man and 
wife; a year afterwards a son was born unto that couple, 
which seemed to complete the rapture of that household ■ 
but, alas ! two months had scarcely thus expired, when 
the father joined the patriotic band of his State and wenl 
forth to battle for freedom ; a few months thereafter 
his wife received a dispatch informing her that her hus- 
band was to be shot to death for a neglect of duty : in 
the midst of this sad news, came tlie surprising reality of 
a fortune left to the husband ; filled with the hope of 
seeinff her husband before his death, she hastened to the 
place of his abode, and arrived here two days ago, to hut 
meet a messenger, who informed her that her husband 
had escaped from prison on the night that a pardon was 
received for him, and he was killed at the skirmish that 
followed his escape; this last news broke the one remain- 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 45 

ing link that bound their hearts together; full of grief, 
she sought her couch, from which she is dragged to- 
night to be taken to some other place, and now tells yon 
her mournful talc, trusting to interest you enough therein, 
that at her death you will take her baby boy and train 
him up to love God and his country. 

Dr. W. Your death is not so near that you should 
speak of it thus sadly. 

.1. M. No ; not ;is near as I would have it. 

Dr. W. True, your married life was short, but then— 

A. M. But then, long enough to have been a mother, 
and too short a time to be called a widow. 

Dr. W. To have been a wife, and so young ; a mother, 
and but a child; a widow, and not yet a woman. [Aside.] 
< )h, 'tis sad, 'tis sad. [Aloud.] Such is life ; so cheer up, 
be brave, and live for thy child's sake. 

A. M. To live and have a vision of the past con- 
stantly floating before me would make lite such a bur- 
densome load, that its uncertain stream would each hour 
become fainter and fainter, and perchance cease just 
when my boy had learned to know a mother's love; no, 
it were better for my child that I were dead, and he 
grow up never to know a. mother's affection. 

Dr. W. Your child, at your death becomes the owner 
of a large fortune; what eager friend would train 
him up to manhood, with that tender motherly love, that 
would not rob him of his fortune ' Who would teach him, 
with that unceasing affection, that stamps in the bosom 
of every being that which, in after life, so ennobles the 
heart, that, unfalteringly it marks upon the dial-plate of 
life the course of honor, that when the frail bark floats 
upon strange waters, memory does not forget the early 
teaching of a fond mother ; to so influence conscience to 
do rio-ht, when there is no honor, fame or wealth to be 
gained, is so acting ; and without such teaching from you, 
what would there lie to protect your child, madam, from 



4(i FREDERICK LAURENCE, OK NOT. 

the unscrupulous villain and the conniving woman ? Oh 
what would there be to keep your child from dishonor- 
ing the name of his dead parents, and cause them to sit 
at the gate of heaven and weep, to see the spirit of their 
1m. \ fly another way ? 

A. M. I pray you, say no mere ; for at this very hour 
will 1 cast aside the veil of my deep-rooted grief and 
live, yes, live, for my child's sake. 

Dr. W. Thank God. 

Enter Hubert, r. 

W. //. The carriage is at the door, and are you — 
Dr. W. We are ready. 

[Exit A. Mensor, supported by Dr. Well*, r. 

W. 11. T shall yet dupe Mensor. 

Enter Lee and V. Mensor, l. 

W. H. [Handing Lee a purse.] Here Jack, is some- 
thing for your trouble [aside]; and if the stranger 
asked whither we had gone, tell him the opposite route. 

[ Exit Hubert, w. 

J. L. Would vou like a room for to-night '. 

V. M. Yes. 

J. L. Wal, then, I reckon you had Letter register 
your name [Pointing] in that ar Look. 

/•'..!/. [(dancing over the register: aside.] Great 
Ood : What names are these ? William Hubert: Doc- 
tor Wells ; and — and Mrs. A. Mensor ! My wife ! Em- 
possible! [(dances over the register.] Tis true ; for 
there's the name. Mrs. A. Mensor. My wife in this 
house, and I knew it not ? my God ! What means 
this anguish afresh ? [Aloud..] Landlord, what strano-- 
ers have you in this house ? 

• /. L. None but yourself. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OE NOT. 47 

F. M. What has become of the two gentlemen I met 
here a short time ago '. 

J.L. Oh, those folks ? 

F. M. Yes ; I believe there are three in the party. 
Who are they ? 

J. L. One is a kernel of dragoons ; the other gent is 
a doctor of anatomy, and the last but not least of the 
party is a lady ; I think that she ar' the wife of a de- 
ceased gineral. 

F. M: Are they not still here ; 

J.L. [Hesitating; hears the sound of wheels.] Wal, 
I reckon so. 

F. M. You lie ! For there they go. [Starts for the 
door; is seized by Lee; they struggle; finally Mensor 
throws Lee to the floor.] You villain .' You are playing 
in the hands of William Hubert. Beware ; for when the 
thunderbolt of justice falls, it may fell you to the ground. 

[Exit F. Mensor, u. 

END <iF ACT V. 



ACT VI. 

[Three years later.-— Evening.] 

Scene, same as in Act II. 

Enter Cardinal Boon. 

C. B. [Yawning.] Oh, oh : oi'm so sleepy [glances 
at clock]; it's but six o'clock, an' it will be twilve bifore I 
git to bed. 

Enter Mollie Gibbons, l. ; unseen by Boon. 

C. B. An' begora : uf I was a rich man, I'd go on a 
bust wid the b'yes ivery noight. 
M. G. Cardinal Boon ' 
C. Jl [Surprised.] Why, Mollie, is that yerself ' 



4<S FREDERICK LAURENCE. OE NOT. 

M. G. What do you suppose it is ' 

('. B. A woman. 

.1/. 67. The loikes ov that remark shud break the rim 
ov yer jaw. 

(■. B. Miss Gibbons, uf ye hed been where I wuz last 
noight, burst yer ribbons, uf ye could keep on yer feet 
to-day. 

M. G. Oi'll give you to understand that oi've always 
hed me feet on. But I say, Card., where wuz ye last 
noight '. 

C. B. After I left the club. I met Dick Smashaway, 
an' together we took the town in. ' 

M. G. An' be jabers; where did you take the town ! 

C. B. By the horns, to be sure. 

M. G. Judging from the looks of ye, I guess ye took 
it by the horn pretty often. 

C. B. Whether 1 did or not, that's me bizness. 

M. G. Yes, to be sure, — yer regular bizness. 

C. B. Miss Gibbons, yer audaucity is very insultin '. 

.1/. G. Mr. Boon, yer cheek is very offensive. 

C. B. Ye are in sich an evil frame of moind, that 1 
shall be as expeditious as possible in laving ye. 

M. G. Oh, Card., don't go : For ye nioight know that 
it wuz only jokin' I wus wid ye. 

0. B. I must go immadiately, uf not at once, fer 
oi've a lot ov preparation to make for the wedding 
tonight, 

.1/. 67. 1 say, Card., iverybody is gettin' married but 
ye and me. 

C. B. An' indade 1 don't care, for I'd as soon be 
single as to be tied down to some blarsted woman, an' a 
pack ov young ones. 

M. G. Now. Card., ye know it's foolishness ye are 
talkin'; fer uf ye would reflect a moment ye would let go 
ov that Bridget Tipplemill an' many some nice girl. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. * 40 

C. B. Uf I gave her the slip, where would I 
again catch on ? 

M. G. Och, an' to be sure, there is plenty ov nice 
clean girls in town, that would be plased to hev ye come 
round ov an evening an' smile wid them. 

C. B. Is it an honest fact ? 

M. G. Oh, yes ; fer there is Mike Duffy's twin sister, 
Jim Monoco's grass widow, an' that lady from the Springs, 
Miss Babhury, an' — an' — me, dear Cardinal 

C. B. Och, but oi'm bewildered ; this unexpected 
news has knocked me heart quite out of joint. 

M. G. Indade, Card., uf I've caused ye pain, I trust ye 
will forgive me. 

C. B. Noble creature ! there is nothin' fer me to fer- 
give ; but uf thou were in earnest in the sentiments 
thou spoke to me, — oh, spake again, an' say thou will be 
moine ? 

M. G. Yours, dear Cardinal, until death. 

C. B. Oh, how I long to hug thy robust form, 

To be but conscious ov the bliss I shall foind, 
In thine arms, before another morn ; 
An' betwixt the hours ov me labor, gintly join 
My lips to those ov thoine. 

M. G. Fer ye to squeeze me an' kiss me, that's jist wot 
I maint ; 
But for God's sake do it, before I faint. 

[They both embrace and kiss, after which arm in arm 
they exit, R, 

Enter A. and C. Mensor, l. 

A. M. My son, you are three years old to-day; and 
upon this anniversary of your birthday, mamma is to 
marry Mr. Hubert, whom from this time henceforth 3'ou 
must regard as your father. 

C. M. Won't it be awful funny though for me to 
have two papas ; for you know, mamma, you've always 



50 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

told me that the picture which hangs over the mantle- 
piece in your room was that of my father. 

A. M. So it is, my dear [weeping], but then 

C. M. But, mamma, you are crying. 

A. M. Tis this allusion to your father that makes 
me weep, for he was such a good man. 

G M. Then, why does he make you cry ? 

A . M. ' Tis not your father's fault, my boy, but the 
fault of the war ; for he went to light — [weeps]. 

G. M. Was not papa a naughty man to fight ? 

A. M. No; for you father loved the beautiful hills, 
horses, cows, chickens, the lovely flowers, the pretty 
stores 

G.M. Candy stores? 

A. M. Yes. 

C. M. And toy stores ? 

A. M. Yes, and you and I, darling. He loved u* all 
so much, that he went to war to fight a lot of men who 
wanted to take all these things away from us. 

G M. Then papa was a good man ; but, mamma, 
why don't papa come home ? 

A. M. If you are a good boy, you will see him one of 
these days. 

G. M. Oh, write him a letter mamma, and tell him 
that Charley wants to see him. 

A. M. That I could, my child [sobs], but it is im- 
possible, for your father is dead. 

G M. My papa dead ! 1 don't remember his funeral ! 

A. M. No, my child [sobs]; you cannot remember, 
for you were then but a baby. 

Enter M. Gibbons, l. 

M. G. An' indade, mam, is it not time fer me to dress 
Master Charley ? 

A. M. Yes [Kissing C. Mensor]. Go, my boy, with 
Molly. [Aside.] God bless his little heart. 

[Exit M. Gibbons and G. Mensor, R. 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 5] 

A.M. Oh, fancy ! Why wilt thou let my thoughts 
journey over the past; recall the days of unspeakable 
rapture ; joy ! that was too young for the world to know, 
or the flowery language of the poet to express. ( >h ! des- 
tituted heart, wilt thou never cease to beat for him who 
first inspired thee with fondness 

Of woman for man, that when nature can no longer re- 
sist its flame, 
And that no dishonor shall be attached to his or her fair 

name ; 
Whilst they enjoy that pleasure 
That revolves the world upon its axis. 
And builds up nations of women and mankind. 
There is a law that forms two brains into one mind, 
And so our hearts, at the promptings of nature, 
And the laws of legislature, 
Were locked together as one — forever! 

No! One has crossed the river of Jordan, and the 
other lies broken upon a cold and cheerless world. 

Enter Barbara Shinwell, l. 

B. S. Cousin Arabella: Madam O'Brien and her im- 
pertinent maid have been waiting this last half hour to 
dress you for your marriage to-night. 

A. M. Like a hated doom, do 1 dread the coming of 
the hour, that will make me henceforth the wife of Wil- 
liam Hubert. 

B. S. I can assure you, that in after years you will 
recall this day, and thank kind Heaven with a most 
grateful heart, that you took the step over which you 
now hesitate. 

A.M. Dear cousin : Notwithstanding your kind as- 
surance, there beats within my bosom a thumping weight 
whose very echo tills my heart with the fear that this 
marriage will cloud my future in a veil full of remorse. 

B. S. You must think of him as one whom you marry 
for the sake of your child ; and as you love him, so will 
he love your child. 



52 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 

.4. ,1/. But then I do not love him, and so I have re- 
peatedly told him. 

B. S. True love comes after marriage. 

A.M. Yes, quite true ; but 'tis preceded by a vision, 
in which one worships their affianced with that grace that 
I have not. 

11. S. For all that, it will be a most brilliant match, 
and the talk of many a day in army circles. He is both 
young and handsome ; has won honors in war : is a 
shrewd business manager; and I'm sure no one, much 
less you, can doubt but that his heart is actuated by 
the purest of motives; for you well know that he loved 
you quite as fondly when you were but a poor penniless 
orphan ; so, naturally, as your husband, he will become 
so deeply interested in your welfare, as to nobly defend 
you from that class of men who are ever ready to 
influence a woman to invest her money where they can 
steal the most. 

A. M. He seems to love my child so much, that I 
marry him, trusting that by little deeds of kindness, 
to so strengthen that affection, that in event of anything 
happening to me, my boy will find a sincere friend and 
manly protector in William Hubert. Ami, now, cousin 
Barbara, if you will excuse me, I will go and dress. 

B. 8. By all means, go and dress; for it would be 
awfully embarrassing if you were to he late. 

[Exit A. Mensor, r. 
B. S. After the wedding to-night, 1 want to live to 
attend but one more wedding, and that is my own. 

Enter Servant "•/<<> announces Major Freshmonger. 

/>'. S. Show the Major in. [Exit Servant,- L. 

Enter Major Freshmonger, l. 

Maj. F. Voluptuous lightning and combustible brim- 
stone ! My dear Mrs. Shinwell, they have gone and done it 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. 53 

B. S. [Stiffly.] Good-evening, Major. 

Maj. F, Ah, yes; you're quite right; 'tis a good 
evening. 

B. S. Major Freshmonger, lias anything serious 
happened ? 

Maj. F. Enough to ruin my reputation for the balance 
of my natural life. 

B. S. What, so alarming '. 

Maj. F. Yes ; quite alarming ? 

B. S. And, pray, what is it that is so alarming ? 

Maj. F. Why, the mess that that holy-Moses Parson 
Jeremiah, blabber-lip Deacon Buckshot, suffering Metho- 
dist fire-eater Elder Sniffles, petticoat brother John 
Smith, and the rest of their sacred gang have got me 
into. Why, my dear madam, in spite of all my pleada- 
ble sentiments, they have gone to work and nominated 
me for District Judge. 

B. S. Why, Major, I should deem it an honor. 

Maj. F. Honor, be damned ; a good lawyer would at 
any time rather pack the jury-box than sentence a thief 
to pulverize rock; or a murderer to stretch hemp. T 
can do the former, with all the grace of my profession 
[aside], because there is millions in it [aloud]; but the 
latter I could never do ; for I am too charitable a man to 
do anything to oppress the poor unfortunate beings of 
ill-luck. 

B. 8. Your charity is unquestionably as noble and 
pure a trait in your life of many virtues, as bawling in 
an infant ; and, by-the-by, Major, won't you buy a 
ticket of me for the Charity Ball ? 

Maj. F. When does it take place ' 

B. S. < m the tenth of next month. 

Maj. F. 1 shan't be in town. 

B. S. At any rate, you might buy one and give it to 
one of your numerous friends. 

Maj. F. My friends don't accept that kind of a ticket. 



54 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

B. S. T-h-e-y don't ! 

Maj. F. No ! they want a ticket, that will admit 
bearer to ©ne drink.' 

B. S. What horrid friends you must have. 

Maj. F. No ; they are men full of joy. 

Who once in a while get to much of the old 
boy. 

B. S. They, then, must be full of the devil. 
Maj. F. Well— so— so. But— 

B. S. Yes, but, you needn't try to change the subject, 
for I won't allow it until you buy a ticket. 

Maj. F. Now, my dear madam, 

Is there anything in my bearing, 

Or about my manner, 

Or even about my handling. 

That indicates that I am a syndicate ? 

B. S. No ; for if there were, I would not have to beg 
you to buy a ticket. 

Maj. F. My dear Mrs. Shinwell, the fact of the 
matter is, that since the demise of my dear wife, I have 
not permitted myself to engage in anything appertain- 
ing to parties or balls. 

B. S. And, sir, allow me to inform you, that out of 
respect to the memory of my dead husband, I have not 
taken part in any of the gay scenes of this world, until 
the present occasion ; which, bring one of charity, I felt, 
that as one of the creatures of this world, I was in duty 
bound to those of my fellow-creatures, who had met 
with misfortune, to do something to alleviate their 
sufferings; therefore, I have put my shoulder to the 
wheel, and I now ask you in the name of common 
humanity, to likewise cast aside your veil of grief and 
show to the world that while your heai t was dumb to the 
saintly voices of nobs' society, it is full of vigor towards 
the poor mortals of charity. Oh, do not falter, for 1 can 
assure you that your beloved better half, and my dead 



-FREDERICK LAURENCE, OE NOT. 55 

old man, will smilingly look clown upon us from their 
cradle on the bluff of that great historic rock of ages, 
and forgive us, for charity's sake, that we so soon remove 
the sign of our distress at their demise. 

Maj. F. [Sneeringly.] Give me a ticket. 

B. S. No, sir ; not until you say, if you please ? 

Maj. F. Madam ! if I must construe 
My sentiments to suit you, 
Why, then, I'm but a slave to your way. 

B. S. It will teach you, that woman commands and 
man obeys. 

Maj. F. [Aside.] Just like the rest of her sex ; she 
lays down the law, and for the sake of peace, the man 
has got to toe it. [Aloud.] Mrs. Shinwell, will you 
please be so good looking as to sell me a couple of 
tickets ? 

B. S. [Handing him tickets.] Major, you are a 
brick. 

Maj. F. Twist the sentiment so as to make it femi- 
nine, and to you I wish the same compliment [putting 
both hands in his vest pockets]. But, thunderation, if I 
ain't broke ! 

B. S. What, so alarming ? 

Maj. F. Yes ; 'tis quite alarming [Taking a bill from 
out of his pocket]. No ; 'tis not so alarming ; for here's 
a fifty-dollar note. 

B. 8. Whew ! but you're no small fry ! 

Maj. F. No, madam ; I am not that kind of a man ; 
for I'll be G. D. if any one ever knew me to clinch 
the polish from off of even a nickle ! 

B. S. Well, no ; T don't think you ever did. But, 
Major, what does G. D. stand for ? 

Maj. F. It stands for Golden Date. 

B. S. You mean Golden Gate. 

Maj. F. I observe — 

B. S. Indeed— 



50* FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

Maj. F. That you do not comprehend ; so allow me 
to explain the difference in the two : Golden Gate, 
refers to the famous harbor of California ; whilst 
Golden Date is the nugget of «-old that is taken from 

Oct a 

the mines of that great State. But this explanation 
docs not pay you for the tickets. 

B. S. I cannot change so large a note ; so you can 
keep the tickets and pay me when you wish. 

Maj. F. The implicit confidence you place in me is 
only the more gratifying by your good looks. 

B. 8. And your sweet sentiments ring through my 
heart with gladness. 

Maj. F. Then if I told you the old story of love, 
what haven would I find in thy bosom ' 

B. 8. A place of rest until death. 

Maj. F. Then you will accept me, for better or worse, 
as your partner for life ? 

B. 8. Yes. [They embrace and kiss.] 

Maj. F. I am a happy man ! 

B. 8. And I, am a happy woman. 

Maj. F. Great Limbo ! But my dear madam, for 
you to be affected just like me is quite alarming ! 

B. 8. Alarming ! Why, gracious heavens ! I think 
it's just charming ; don't you ? 

Maj. F. Yes [aside]; damn it. 

B. S. Then let us go, — where undisturbed we may 
pursue our — 

Maj. F. Love-making. 

[Exit Freshmonger and Shinwell, arm in arm. 

Enter F. Mensor, r. 

F. M. At last ! I am here in the old house again ; 
there sits the old clock, in the same old place, as upon that 
fatal night nearly three years ago, when I bade the 
woman of my heart farewell; unconscious of my depart- 
ure or of my arrival, it pursues its work of time, unable 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 57 

to catch the fast fleeting vehicle that long ago bore my 
wife and my enemy from the tavern whose roof had 
sheltered us at the one time. I tramped from town to 
town ; thus traveling for ten months, when footsore and 
heartbroken I reached the city of Baltimore ; two days 
after my arrival there, I was taken with the fever, and 
laid upon my back in the hospital for weeks before I 
was able to be upon my feet again ; when I returned 
thanks to those who cared for me, by assisting them to 
care for others ; from Baltimore I shipped to San Fran- 
cisco ; thence back to New York ; then overland I trav- 
eled to this dear old place. And my wife, I wonder if 
she will know me. Well, hardly, while thus disguised. 
Oh, how I long to see her ; to ask her to fly with me to 
some new r land, where I can rest in peace until the 
barrier that now dooms me to death is removed. Hark ! 
[Listens] ; I hear footsteps ; some one is coming ; I 
dare not wait to see who it is ; but go. 

[Exit F. Mensor, r. 

Enter Freshmostger and Shinwell, arm .in arm, 
followed by A. Hubert (formerly A. Mensor), and W. 
Hubert, arm in arm, and other guests, l. All exit R., 
except W. and A. Hibert. 

W. H. Calm yourself, my dear wife; for 'tis all 
over. 

A 77. [Aside.] Yes, 'tis done. [Aloud.] Forgive me 
if I've acted strange ; for 'tis the fault of my memory 
that brings back to my heart a time, though long ago, 
yet when I took the same vows I have taken to-night. 

W. H. Forgive you, with all my heart; for your 
sake, and the sake of him that is dear to the heart of 
both of us. 

A. H. He was, indeed, William, very dear to my 
heart. 

11". H-. And I can assure you that you were no less so 



58 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

to him ; for to me he invariably spoke of you as the 
blooming flower of his life. 

A. II. Surely, then, William, you must have occupied 
a very close seat to his heart, that he should reveal to 
you the secrets of his bosom. 

W. H. Such I did ; for we were like brothers ; and — 
when I last saw him — 

A. H. Well— 

W. H. When I last saw him — 

A. H. .Why do you hesitate ? 

W. H. Because I do not wish to speak of that which 
would till your heart with sorrow. 

A. H. But you must not mind me. 

W. H. But I do ; because I love you so much that ere 
you should shed one tear of sorrow, I would cut oft' 
my right hand. 

A. H. I promise you that I will calmly sit here and 
listen to your tale, without showing one visible sign of 
remorse. 

W. II. The last time I saw Fred. Mensor was in 
prison in Virginia; and after promising him to return 
to his cell before early morn, to join with him in prayer 
to God for thy welfare and the safety of his son, as well 
as receive his last and most gracious message of love to 
thee, I left him and sought my couch ; worn out with 
my da}'s' work, I soon fell asleep from which I was 
awakened two hours later by the loud crash of musketry; 
at the same moment into my tent rushed a messenger, 
who, in one breath, informed me of Mensor's pardon, — 
his escape, — and that the enemy were upon us ; in four 
hours thereafter we had repulsed the enemy ; then 
followed the search for Mensor, which resulted in our 
finding him, with his skull so crushed that the features 
were unrecognizable. 

A. H. Then how knew you that it was him ' 

W. H. We knew that it was him from the- clothes 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 59 

and letters found in his pockets ; this furnished all the 
identity that was necessary. 

A. H. Strange that I never knew of this before ! 

W. H. Not at all ; for whenever, heretofore, I broache< I 
the subject, you would invariably turn me away with the 
answer, " tell me some other time ; " and then T don't 
see what difference it can make after all. 

^4. H. Oh, none, whatever, — whatever — 

W. H. But, dear, is it not time that you changed 
your dress for your traveling-suit. 

A. H. Why not wait until to-morrow '. Give me yet 
a few more hours in this dear old home, that I leave 
to-night forever. 

W. H. Dearest, that is quite impossible ; for to-morrow 
'twould be too late to make the connections. 

A. H. Then come with me, while I bid my boy a last 
adieu. 

W. H. No ; you go alone, and I will follow soon. 

A. H. William, perhaps you are angry because I 
have acted so strange : but you'll forgive me? 

W. H. [Embracing her.] Why, my dear, there is 
nothing for me to forgive. [Kisses her.] 

AH. Thank you. [Exit A. Hubert, L. 

W. H. I've now the woman, but not the fortune ; the 
child stands in my way; if I were to choke him to 
death, then leave him lay in his trundle-bed, he would 
be found there to-morrow, at which time his mother and 
I would be upon the steamer an voyage for Australia; 
the coroner's jury's verdict would be suffocation, and 
place the crime upon the head of one of the servants. 

Enter C. Mensor, l. 

W. H. Why, Charley, I thought that you were in lied! 

C. M. So I was ; but then after mamma kissed me 
good-bv, and said that after awhile cousin Barbara and 
I would o-o to Australia, I waited until she left the 



6() FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

room ; then I put on my dressing-gown and came down 
here to ask you if I couldn't go with you now; 'cause I 
know mamma wouldn't care, if you wouldn't, 'cause she 
said so. 

W. H. Charley, you sit there on the sofa ; and when 
I've put the lights out, why, then, we will go and see 
mamma, and just as she says we will do. 

[Hubert puts out the lights.] 

C. M. Oh, goody ! but isn't it dark ! 

W. H. Yes; but come to me and we'll go and see 
mamma. 

[C. Mensor, hesitating, approaches him, when Hubert 
seizes him by the throat.] 

W. H. Now will I rid me of him, once for all. 

Enter F. Mensor, who seizes Hubert; the latter loos- 
ens his hold of C. Mensor, who falls to the floor stunned. 
For a moment Hubert and F. Mensor struggle together; 
the former 'pulls a revolver; it is wrenched from him by 
the latter, who with one push throws Hubert to the 
floor, and points revolver at him. 

F. M. If you were not such a villain, I would give 
you a better show for your life. [Shoots once, twice, and 
three times.] 

\Y. H. [Falling over on his back.] Oh, my God ! I 
am shot. 

Enter Freshmonger, Shinwell, A. KuBERTand Serv- 
ants, l.; the loiter make same lights. 

B. S. Oh, horrors ! 

A. H. [Bending over the body of her son.] Oh, my 
boy, my boy; speak! tell me dearest, — speak, and tell 
mother, darling, what befell her pet ! 

Maj. F. [To servant.] Go, with all speed, for a 
doctor! [Bending over W. Hubert.] I fear he cannot 
lon£ survive. 



- FREDERICK LAURENCE, OB NOT. (il 

B. S. [Pointing to F. Mensor.] And there's the man 
who did the shooting '. 

F. M. [Throwing off his disguise.] I do not deny it. 

Maj. F. Great God! 'tis Frederick Mensor! 

B. S. Or his ghost. 

A. H. What does this all mean ? Am I dreaming, or 
do my eyes deceive me. 

F. M. No, 'tis not a dream, but a sad reality. Yet, 
Arabella, my wife, my dear wife, have you not one word 
of welcome for me ? 

A. H. One word of welcome for you, sir, upon whom 
has been lavished a woman's fondest devotion; who 
filled my heart for days, yea, years, with the bitter 
anguish of that one, whom by death is robbed of all thai, 
made life a thing of joy ; a something that makes the 
soul of mortal to yearn ; for thus was my heart filled 
with a love for you, that ne'er a breath escaped from my 
bosom, that did not contain a prayer begging my God to 
hasten the day that would bear me to that shore where 
under the bright sunlight of heaven for the sorrow I had 
known here, I might there in that palace of crystal, 
enjoy with you everlasting happiness ; but to now learn 
that the tears of anguish that I shed, and the sorrow 
that I endured, was but for a sham death, that you 
caused to be reported, is alone enough to fill my heart 
with a bitter hatred for the man, whom, under the cover of 
love and the shadow of death, has thus mocked me ; but 
when I also realize that you return to this threshold and 
murder my son and my husband, the former begot by 
you, and the latter the man in whom was centered my 
future happiness, every nerve within me burns with the 
passion of that vengeance that can only satisfy my bleed- 
ing heart by taking the law within my own hands and 
murder you as cruelly as you have murdered these inno- 
cent beings. 
[Exit Freshmonger, L., carrying C. M< ns<>r In. his arms. 



62 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

F. M. If for you to take the law within your 
hands would afford your heart one moment's pleasure, I 
would most willingly relinquish life; die with my lips 
sealed. 

B. M. It would, indeed ! 

F. M. [Handing A. Hubert a revolver.] Then, fair 
lady, take this weapon and perform the deed that thy 
heart craves for. 

A.H. I will : 

Enter Frexhmonger, l. 

W. H. Arabella, my dear, I beseech of you, do not 
kill an innocent man. 

A. M. Innocent ! 

F. j\I. Speak, man, ere it is too late. 

W. H. Then listen to my confession: Arabella, my 
wife, I loved you when you were but a poor orphanless 
maiden ; but to me you were false ; for, after you had 
given me your heart, you stole it back for another's sake ; 
tli is tilled my bosom full of vengeance against the man 
whohad robbed me of my treasure; and when I learned that 
his father died and left him a large fortune, I plotted 
for his life, your hand, Arabella, and the fortune ; I 
prevailed upon Mensor to go to war ; I laid the trap 
that caused him to be sentenced to death ; I saw, and 
spoke to him at the tavern, where you, Arabella, laid so 
ill ; I then bade him go to some new country, or I would 
hand him over to those from whom he was fleeing ; and 
whilst I spoke to him, I had within my pocket a copy 
of the pardon that had been granted him ; and to-night, 
scarce one hour after you, Arabella, and I had been made 
one, I attempted to choke your boy to death, because I 
wanted no one to have the benefit of a single thought 
of yours but me; thus thought I, with me alone to 
influence you, what would there lie to keep me from so 
twisting you around my ringer as to swindle you out of 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. Go 

your fortune ? And while the grip of my hands were 
tightening around your boy's neck, Fred. Mensor entered 
the room unseen by me until he had seized me ; together 
we struggled ; I drew my revolver, but ere I had time 
to use it he had wrested it from me and shot me as though 
I were but a dog. 

A. H. [To F. Mensor.] And you were then but the 
victim of this man's vengeance ? 

F. M. Yes ; and while I knew that he was my enemy, 
there was no way left me to prove him such, unless I 
could so cower him that but a confession would save his 
life. 

A. H. How strange all this seems. 

F. M. Yes, this seems very strange ; but 'tis righted 
now, that yonder villain has run the full length of the 
rope ; and I thank God that I have lived to see him do it. 

A. M. And from you, dear Frederick, I ask forgive- 
ness for the harsh words I used to you when first we 
met this evening. 

F. M. [Seizing both his wife's hands.] Forgive you, 
for what you did not mean, why not? [Draws her 
towards him.] No ; I dare not, dare not embrace you, 
much less kiss you, whilst that villain holds the last 
title to your person. 

A. H. Your claims shall be first, and as such will 
I recognize them against the law of court and country. 

F. M. [Embracing his wife.] Upon those sentiments 
will I take my stand. [Kisses her.] 

Enter Servant, l. 

Servant. The doctor is in attendance upon Master 
Charley [to A. Hubert], and wished me to inform ye that 
the bye is more frighten' than hurt. 



64 FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 

Enter Doctor, l. 

A. H. Oh, Doctor, how is my boy ? 

Doctor. Quite out of danger. 

A. H. Then I will go and see him. 

Doctor. No ; that I would not have you do ; for he is 
resting so comfortably that it is better that he should be 
left alone [pointing to W. Hubert]; and is this the other 
patient ? 

Maj. F. Yes, sir. 

W. II. Oh, dear, Doctor, save me! Save me ! 

Doctor. [Examining W. Hubert's wounds.] The 
wounds are not fatal ; but there is no doubt but that 
they will disfigure and cripple you for the rest of 
your life. 

W. H. I am thus then doomed to live a poor wretch, 
a disfigured cripple ; and as such a harmless creature, can 
you not forgive me, Frederick Mensor ? 

F. M. Ha, ha ! You, who courted my death, and when 
you failed in that preferred to see me endure the suffer- 
ings of that poor mortal who friendless flees from a sup- 
posed doom rather than save me, then married my wife, 
and even tried to murder my son ; but when foiled in 
your plans, when unrobed of your evil power, when 
dismantled of the cloak under the cover of which you 
perpetrated you fiendish acts, you then plead for mercy ( 
Ha, ha, ha ! you villain ; there is none in my heart for 
you ; for its curse is still as of yore, — that your beauty 
may be spoiled forever ; that you may be a crawling 
cripple for the rest of your lifetime ; and henceforth 
may your vile conscience be to your heart of sin like 
the lighted torch to the Alpine forest ; the flames of a 
living fire within your bosom ever burning with the 
blazing heat of purgatory ; shorn from the love of even 



FREDERICK LAURENCE, OR NOT. 65 

a single being; free from all that would lessen your 
anguish ; may you thus live, enjoying as well as you can 
the fierce, torturing agony of such a life until the day 
of judgment. 

When by warring winds 

The stormy blasts of hell, 

With restless fury shall drive thy spirit on 

To that haven where everlasting the fire for 

The worst of sinners dims ; 

May there unceasing play thy wretched hands 

Now thisway, now that way, glancing to shake off 

The heat still falling fresh, bends 

Your form in anguish, that nothing can ever mar. 

Ha, ha, ha! This is my mercy, and the same curse I 
launched upon thy head long ago, and thank God that 
I have lived to see the best of it come to pass. 



E 

3 



